The Dragon King Bloodline of Hogwarts

Chapter 6 The Principal's Office

At the end of the corridor, a stone statue stood silently in the shadows.

Viserys stood before it, having already counted the patterns on every single stone brick in the wall. He tried the password: "Targians." The statue remained motionless; "Daemon" didn't respond. "Blood and Fire," "Dragonfire," "Korakshyu"—he tossed out every word he could think of, but the statue didn't even lift an eyelid.

Daenerys crouched in the corner, drawing invisible patterns in the cracks between the floor tiles with her fingers.

"Brother, does it not like you?"

He didn't answer, took a step back, stopped looking at the statue, and closed his eyes.

The wind in the Astronomy Tower, Dumbledore's blue eyes, the tap of his finger on the stone railing as he said those words—"When you learn to trust me, I won't poison your dinner."

He placed trust as a prerequisite. Dumbledore never demanded that he believe, only saying that he would learn to believe when he learned. The old man knew he didn't believe now, but he also knew that he would one day. This relationship didn't need to be strained like a knife to the side.

There are many ways to knock on a door, one of which is to let the door know that you know why it is locked.

"Dumbledore."

The statue's eyes lit up, and it slowly moved away, revealing the spiraling stone steps behind it.

Daenerys stood up and dusted off her skirt.

"It likes Dumbledore."

"No." Viserys took her hand. "It likes that I know why it's locked up."

In the principal's office, the portraits covering the walls all seemed to open their eyes simultaneously. Male witches, female witches, robes from different eras, and different ways of scrutinizing each other.

"Silver hair, purple eyes." The portrait in the upper left corner spoke first. It was a wizard with high cheekbones and slick, black hair that clung to his scalp. A smile played on his lips—the kind of smile Viserys had seen countless times in King's Landing—the smile of someone who held a trump card but wasn't in a hurry to reveal it. "That name from the Slytherin Notebooks, Targaryen."

He said that when he pronounced Targaryen, he pronounced the syllables very accurately, unlike the first time he said it.

"Phineas Nigellus Black." The wizard in the portrait nodded slightly, as if offering a self-introduction. "You resemble your ancestor, especially your eyes. Damon Targaryen, I've seen his portrait in the Black family collection."

Where is that portrait now?

Phineas's lips curled up slightly. "What, you want to see?"

I asked where.

"Black House, London, number twelve Grimmauld Place." Phineas leaned back in the chair depicted in the painting. "But you can't go in now. Only someone of the Black family bloodline can open that door, or with the permission of a house-elf."

Viserys memorized the address.

"Enough, Phineas." A portrait on the right wall spoke up; it was a witch with gray hair neatly styled in a bun. "He was just a child, not the next item on your Black family's collection list."

"Delise de Winter," Phineas drawled, "the healer of St. Mungo's, the most boring headmaster in Hogwarts history, who is always worried about the children."

"Because he's just a child." Delis didn't look at Phineas; she looked at Viserys. "How long has it been since you had a full night's sleep?"

Viseritz paused for a moment. "My sister slept very well yesterday."

Dalys's gaze fell on Daenerys beside him, lingered for a moment, and then looked away. She didn't ask any further questions, but simply nodded.

The other portraits began to whisper among themselves. Viserys caught a few words in the buzzing noise—Daemon, dragons, blood magic. Each portrait knew a part, but no one knew everything.

He didn't go to any of the paintings. He saw the table.

The principal's desk was made of dark wood with brass-plated corners. An open book lay on the desk, and next to it was a quill pen, the ink still wet at the tip.

Viserys approached; the book was made of parchment, with names written vertically, each line followed by a date. His hand stopped on one of the lines.

Viserys Targaryen. Recorded date: 1990 AD.

A cry.

Viserys looked up and saw a creature he had only seen sketched once in the margins of Damon's notebook, perched on a perch by the window deep inside the office.

Phoenix.

The notes contain only a rough outline and a line of small print: Phoenix Flame. No sample has been obtained yet, and it is not numbered.

Fox's feathers were deep red with golden edges. Its tail feathers drooped, their tips burning. It looked at Viserys, its eyes golden with vertical pupils.

Viserys' right palm felt slightly warm.

The rune in his palm resembled a plant reaching for the light, slightly tilting towards Fox, his bloodline recognizing something that could be absorbed.

Fox tucked in its tail feathers.

It envelops the flames, like someone tightening an open garment—a small but decisive movement.

Refuse.

The heat in Viserys's palm immediately subsided, and Fox looked at him warily, with hostility.

Daenerys stepped out from behind him.

She didn't look at the portraits covering the walls; from the moment she entered, her gaze was fixed on Fawkes. She had seen a phoenix in the "Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures" in the library, and she was curious and wanted to get closer, but knew she had to go slowly.

She walked to the perch, stopped, and looked up.

Fox looked down at her; she was a three-year-old child with silver hair and purple eyes, not even as long as a phoenix's tail feather.

Daenerys stretched out her hand, palm open with fingertips pointing upwards, as if catching the flame in Viserys's palm in the library, waiting for it to decide for itself.

Fox's tail feathers drooped down and fell into her palm.

The flames danced in her palm, but did not burn her.

She smiled.

Viserys stood there, that sentence from Damon's notes resurfacing. This wasn't absorption, it was a gift; Korakshu had chosen Damon. Fawkes had chosen Daenerys, not because she had Targaryen blood, but because she opened her hands and waited for it to decide. She didn't even know what she was waiting for; she simply opened her hands.

"Fox rarely initiates contact with strangers."

Viserys turned around and saw Dumbledore standing at the top of the stairs on the second floor, one hand on the railing. The hem of his indigo robe stopped at the edge of the steps; he had probably been there the whole time.

"Daenerys is no stranger," Viserys said.

"To Fawkes, everyone is a stranger." Dumbledore walked down the last few steps. "It has lived much longer than I have, and has seen wizards come and go. Whom it chooses to befriend has nothing to do with bloodline."

Viserys looked down at his palm. "What does it relate to?"

Dumbledore walked to the table, his fingers lightly brushing across the open page of the register, without answering.

Viserys didn't need his answer. He already knew the answer. Fox rejected him not because he wasn't qualified, but because the way he looked at Fox was no different from how he looked at that unnumbered sample in Damon's notes. He hadn't learned to be open-minded yet.

"You need to arrange for me to enroll in school," Viserys said.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly. "Professor McGonagall already told you about this in the infirmary."

“I’m not guessing,” Viserys said. “I’m calculating how many roads you paved. You had McGonagall tell me about the curriculum, you showed me Damon’s notes, you laid out the admissions list on the page I could see, you even gave me the password to the statue. But you didn’t push me an inch the whole time. You paved the road and then stood by and watched where I went.”

Dumbledore sat down behind the table, interlacing his fingers. "Phineas said you're like Damon, and he's partly right. You're like him, but you learned one thing earlier than him."

"What?"

"It took Damon ten years to learn not to ask 'What can you give me?' but 'What are you willing to give me?' After you were rejected by Fox, you didn't chant a spell to try and make it submit."

Viserys paused for a moment; he truly hadn't. The absorption incantation was written in Damon's notes, but as Fawkes tucked his tail feathers, the incantation caught in his throat, and he swallowed it back.

"It's no use me reciting it; it won't give it to me."

"Most wizards my age wouldn't be able to tell the difference between these two things," Dumbledore said. "You'll be starting school as a first-year student in September. Before school starts, you'll need to go to Diagon Alley to buy your wand and school supplies."

Viserys nodded, but Dumbledore didn't finish speaking.

"Gringotts, someone left something for you."

Viserys looked up. "Damon."

"Leave it to the one Damon prophesies." Dumbledore tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "Professor McGonagall will take you there."

What's stored in Gringotts?

"You'll know when you see it."

Viserys didn't press the matter; he called Daenerys back from Fawkes. As she loosened her phoenix tail feathers, Fawkes lowered his head and gently touched the top of her head with his beak.

"Brother, its flame is warm."

Viserys took her hand. "It likes you very much."

He stopped when he reached the door.

"You put my name in the register, so you knew I would come."

There was a moment of silence behind me.

"I knew you would come," Dumbledore's voice came from behind the table, "but I didn't know what you would do when you arrived. That page was blank."

Viserys pushed open the door, and the stone statue slowly closed behind him.

Daenerys tugged at his hand. "Brother, what did Grandpa mean by the blank page?"

Viserys walked for a while before speaking.

"It means he paved the road, but I'm the one walking on it."